


y(our) meaning

by aalphard



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Fluff, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Mutual Pining, Reincarnation, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Writer Sakusa Kiyoomi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-15
Updated: 2021-02-15
Packaged: 2021-03-14 20:41:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,705
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29302098
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aalphard/pseuds/aalphard
Summary: He touches me and I burn.He smiles and suddenly I am no more.It is but my unbecoming, the way his fingers memorize every inch of my body, the way his lips know exactly where to touch, how to call my name in the way that will render me speechless, all his to do what he pleases with.I am his, body and soul and everything I have to offer.or: kiyoomi met him, poetry, and that has made him a poet.
Relationships: Miya Atsumu/Sakusa Kiyoomi
Comments: 22
Kudos: 83
Collections: SakuAtsu Fluff Week 2021, So beautiful It makes me want to cry





	y(our) meaning

**Author's Note:**

> also known as the reincarnation au no one asked for but i delivered anyway!
> 
> this fic was written for the sakuatsu fluff week day 2 prompts: **soulmate au** || **"is this the moment that we kiss?"**

_ Majestic, the way words drip from his lips. _

_ Laid upon a mountain of hay, strands of gold scattering everywhere as his hair flowed with the night wind that surrounded us, as he opened his arms and whispered my name. The promises we made by the shore, with the moon as our only witness, “ _ I do” _ , we said to ourselves, laughing like the sixteen-year-olds we were.  _ “Is this when we kiss?”,  _ a thunderous laugh as he wrapped his arms around my shoulders, “ _ because I’d very much like that, poet. What do you say?”

_ I said yes. _

_ Yes to every trace of his fingers and every stolen kiss. _

_ An ethereal sight, I found him lying on the ground, the mark on his neck visible through several layers of nobility’s touch. It was such a beautiful scene, such a beautiful metaphor for the things we are and the things we won’t get to be. A fox with its eyes shut tight, its tail wrapping around a hive, around a thousand spots, and the hue around it that only we could see. A fox suffering the stings and burns, a hive being choked to death, a desperate attempt to save themselves, to save each other from treacherous hands and the pain it brought them. A fox crying yellow tears like the honey drip of his voice as we kissed under a tree, under the moonlight with the stars as witnesses of the promises we shared. _

_ A hug of a tail, the promise of comfort and protection. _

_ The swirling tails of the comets flying across the victorian sky inside his eyes, the wandering son walking through the years, through the seasons and the harvests, his chin up and eyes closed as the sun hits his hair. I sketch him on my mind, I throw up words that remind me of him. Love, mostly, but also tenderness and the stars, the way he hung them up in the sky with the softest glow mimicking the meteors swimming inside his eyes, the trajectory of his stallion as he runs away from the pressures of a castle. _

“I’m not a prince,” _ he said once. _

_ “ _ You look like one,”  _ I remember replying. _

_ And he does. _

_ In the mornings we wake up tucked safely in each other’s arms with his breath on my nape. In the mornings where it feels like war’s finally been won and there’s no need for any more pain. In the nights he arrives with a hood over his head, his locks darker than night itself as he catches his breath with a, “ _ Almost didn’t make it, they were patrolling tonight”,  _ with the swift brush of his thumb against my cheek as he asks for another kiss, as one of his palms rests patiently over our mark and over the marks he left around them, too. “ _ Can I?”

_ It’s always yes. _

_ “The leaves are falling,” he comments with a hand over my chest. _

_ “They are.” _

_ Autumn comes and, with it, my longing. The nights I spend without him are the sleepless nights filled with thoughts of him, thoughts that rupture my dreams and force me awake as I stare at the empty space where his body is supposed to be. I feel the hunger pangs down to my weakened soul, I scratch my neck just over the mark that connects us and the thoughts just keep rushing in. _

_ His laugh once he saw a replica of his mark on my skin.  _ “Found ya.”

_ His gasps and whispers as we hide under his velvet cloaks. “ _ So pretty…”

_ His sighs once we’re half-dressed, as he whispers,  _ “I love you.”

_ It’s because of the mark, I remind him.  _

_ It’s because the heavens carefully crafted us as their masterpiece, as the couple who could not be. A story written for the hungry eyes to devour as we devoured each other, hands searching for hands and skin burning to the touch. Scorching kisses and desperate flames that followed a whip of a fox’s tale as we whispered  _ I love you, I love you, I love you _ countless times because it never felt like it was enough. _

_ “ _ There’ll be a ball,” _ he said one day. “ _ I’m about to get married to this really influential person. ‘Samu is, too. We’re told nobility will take care of our parents and tend to them once they are sick. We’re told our blood is needed, golden and silver running through our veins.”

_ For once, nobility was right, was what I thought at the time. _

_ “I will write about you,” I tell him. “I will write about the stars in your eyes and the golden threads of your hair. I will write you as the god that could not be and the fire of a nine-tailed fox boiling inside your veins, the power sealed away by a lover’s kiss.” _

_ “You being the lover, I suppose?” _

_ A smile through our kiss. “Precisely.” _

_ The kiss over a hive and the tails of the fox wrapping around us, so tightly I could almost believe I was suffocating when his hands held my cheeks, so tenderly, in the way he always held me. His face over mine, eyebrows knitted together as he whispered,  _ ah _ , and the way I felt like galaxies expanded inside my chest as we drowned and drowned and gasped for air over each other’s mouths, as we prayed to the gods to let us have this final day, to let us dissipate completely as we were still buried in each other, as we tasted and tasted and tasted and- _

_ In a few weeks, he won’t be mine anymore. _

_ In a few months, the silk of his words will be wrapped around someone else’s throat, a golden band around their fingers and a sweet, forced smile on their faces as they get married to someone they don’t love.  _

_ “I’ll write to you,” he tells me as he’s still over me, hands in my hair and lips glued to my neck. “I’ll write to you and I’ll have you write to me. I’ll pay for your services, the beautiful poetry you write, and I’ll have you travel with me. I’ll…” _

_ I silence him with a kiss. _

_ A kiss that tastes like honey and tragedy, a taste permanently etched onto me as he whines and carves his marks all over my body.  _ Please, _ I pray,  _ let us have this. Forever, let us have this. _ He kisses me like I’m air to his lungs, like I’m the warmth he’s seeking in cold, long nights. I might be. For now, at least. _

_ I kiss him again and again and he melts under my touch. _

_ We don’t need any maps to guide us because our hands have already memorized the shape of our bodies, the shape of our hearts. We don’t need the flickering light of a candle because, right now, as we drown in each other for all of the nights that have yet to come, we only need the moon and the stars that watch over us with a nod and a smile, the heavens blessing our union when the rest of the world doesn’t.  _

_ “I love you,” I tell him. “Take my heart with yours when you’re in the chapel.” _

_ “No,” he says back. “I won’t take it. You take mine instead. You hold on to it and wait for me. I’ll find you again when we’re reborn. You take my heart and the image of me wrapped around you forever.” _

_ “We still have time,” I tell him. “I’ll write to you. I’ll be working under you. I’ll write you the most beautiful poems, just like the thousands of constellations on your back and the ones you hold in your eyes.” _

_ A chuckle, the giddiness inside my stomach. “You will.” _

_ I will. _

_ He kisses my forehead. Once and then twice. _

_ Soon, he’ll no longer be what I call mine, but a vessel of nobility, a sword by his hip and a cape on his back as he rides a graceful white stallion. It suits him, the image of a prince, the image of a merciful king who offers a hand to the people passing by, red wine in his veins and the sun over his head as he smiles and laughs, throwing his head back and scrunching up his nose in the way only he knows how.  _

_ His hands on my thighs, my chest, my back. _

_ Tonight and every other night, while we still can and with the moon and the stars as our only witnesses, we stay where we are, holding on, lost in the dark and forever remembering that  _ yes _ , we loved each other once; that,  _ yes,  _ he still tastes like the stardust and his touch still scorches my skin. _

_ I’ll take it. _

_ I’ll drink him whole and beg for more as I spill ink over white paper and steal kisses during the night, during the few stolen hours we have alone and I can finally whisper on his chest that  _ “I’ve missed your touch”,  _ that  _ “Please, stay with me tonight, my love.” _ And the way he smiles at me and gets rid of his clothes, as he sighs and melts into my embrace, as we hide under the blankets on a soft bed and we laugh. “This could be seen as adultery,” I sometimes whisper. “We shall be punished.” _

_ And he laughs as if I’m not a master of my words, but a mere jester. “So be it,” he kisses me breathless. He smiles and presses his thumb against my covered mark. “You are mine and I am yours. The bonds forged by empty words, the beautiful clothes and the riches on my hands, they don’t mean a thing, love. What makes me rich are your words and the pages of this book that we have yet to write. I’ll wait for the life we’ll have together once we’re reborn and allowed to love each other without having to hide.” _

_ “Is that you, Sir, asking for my hand in marriage in another life?” _

_ He smiles that cheeky smile of his before burying himself in everything I am. “Yes. I’ll ask you to be mine in every life after this one and the ones after that, too. I want to hear your words in every single one.” _

_ Okay, I think as we kiss. _

_ “I’ll always find you,” he says. _

_ Okay, I think as we get lost in each other for the last time. _

_ For now, that’s all we need. _

* * *

Out of the woods, from the dark veil of clouds, Kiyoomi dreamed of him again, the fragrance of hyacinth and honey drops like the sounds of his laughter bubbling out of his throat while they rolled over in thin sheets laid out next to the lemon tree by the river. He dreamed of his smile, the glimmer in his eyes and the warmth of his touch, the fondness of his voice first thing in the morning and the way his hair looked like a laurel wreath as he hid his face under his hands when Kiyoomi whispered  _ you are, of all the unapproachable stars in the sky, the fairest, the brightest of them all and at the mere sight of you words fail me, the goddesses in my prayers saluting your presence - for you are more than they’d ever hope to be. _

Like jewels, so bright, crystal tears fall from his eyes as soon as his eyelids flutter open. It was nothing more than a dream, the sight of him making his heart stop for one, two, ten seconds and the memories come flooding his head without ever asking for permission. The nights at the forest and the way Atsumu liked to sing along with the birds as they were chopping wood. The way he liked reading even though there was a time where they couldn’t get any books -  _ that’s what trespassing is for, my Lord, _ he used to say.  _ I am no Lord, merely a peasant like you _ , Kiyoomi had told him once.  _ Why, with looks like these? It seems peasantry has been holding some pretty faces. _ And Kiyoomi had laughed before snatching the fancy book from his hands,  _ like you? _

The blinds move with the morning breeze, the rays of the sun stubbornly waltzing inside to grab him by his ankles and get him out of bed. He sits up and yawns, scratching his head and then his neck, fingers instinctively lingering for a few seconds over the mark on his neck, the very thing that screams his name and makes looking at his reflection in the mirror a hard task for Kiyoomi.

Sakusa Kiyoomi, author, was who the world knew.

Sakusa Kiyoomi, bestselling author for three times in a row with his  _ Hidden _ series, praised by the literary community for renovating the customary writing style of fantasy novels, for the use of carefully arranged metaphors and painfully real scenarios as if he’s lived them himself. Sakusa Kiyoomi, author, was a force to be reckoned with as he climbed up the stairs all the way up to success at a very young age, as he declined interviews and all kinds of public appearances, cold and harsh, a faceless phantom lurking in the shadows.

Sakusa Kiyoomi, author hiding behind a mask, behind tens of thousands of words describing the goldens and the oranges and the ways the leaves fell down so graciously as the church bells rang, as the world came to a halt for a few seconds because  _ ah. _ Sakusa Kiyoomi, author no one truly knew.

That wasn’t who he was.

Kiyoomi, the person behind the novels and the metaphors, behind the fortune and fame, was the person who stared at his ceiling at 3AM with one hand over the mark on his neck thinking to himself that  _ it’s about time now _ . Kiyoomi, the person who woke up earlier than necessary to stare at the rising sun and trace the fox’s tail with the tip of his fingers, the person who couldn’t help but miss someone he hadn’t met in this lifetime yet. Kiyoomi, a hopeless romantic, a poet who used words to explain the feelings assailing him as soon as he opened his eyes in this life only to realize that he was alone.

Kiyoomi, a man who misses his other half.

“Are you ready for today?”

It’s like having his wings clipped, the way his voice sounds robotic as he answers a monotonous  _ yes _ because he isn’t, he never will be. He has his phone glued to his ear, a yawn ready to break through and a shudder climbing through his spine as he forces himself to laugh, as the voice on the other side reminds him that  _ we’ll be there to pick you up in about an hour. _ Right, because he’s an author and authors sometimes have to meet their readers and sometimes shake their hands and give out autographs as they smile sweetly at people they’ve never even met as they excitedly tell them that  _ your book changed my life _ , as they cry and laugh all at the same time and the author just has to smile and pretend that’s not the most horrendous thing he’s ever seen.

“Okay,” he replies with a sigh. “Do I have to?”

“It’s already been settled.”

“Okay.”

“I know you’re nervous…”

Kiyoomi clicks his tongue. “Not nervous.”

“… but there’s nothing for you to worry about.”

There was.

So many things could go wrong when you’re the center of attention, Kiyoomi thinks as he lets his manager know that he’ll be ready,  _ dressed in that fancy suit you made me buy and all _ , he whispers by the end of the call. 

His books were best-selling, all of them. They were about the tragedies surrounding the myths, the stories of love and the ephemerality of it all, about being destined to someone and yet not being able to stand beside them. They were about the gold and silver running through youth’s veins and how unjust the system was back when riches and power were all you could ever hope for. He was praised for it, for  _ how real it felt, how we were transported back to the times of the greatest poets, the era of monarchs and nobles, the arranged marriages and the marks that were there only for show, truly a great researcher, a poet in soul. _

And ah, he laughs all alone in his bedroom, how would they react if only they knew…

There was no research, no long night hunched over a computer, staring at a blinking cursor over a blank page. There were no frustrated cries or screams or anything other than the memories assailing him, the memories he bled over the screen, the words melting into each other as he cried for someone he wasn’t sure he’d meet again, for the mark on their necks and the scent of  _ him _ , etched onto his own skin like a tattoo he couldn’t cover up with concealer. There was nothing other than him and the man who had him whole.

He gets up, he gets dressed and waits for the car to come pick him up. 

He watches his reflection in the mirror, how poorly he hid his mark with thin layers of cheap makeup, how his hair was nothing but a messy nest of curls and knots he didn’t really feel like combing. It’s funny, he thinks to himself as he tries to deal with it before his agent scolds him for it, how differently people portray him as based on the words he writes. They’ve never seen his face and yet somehow they believe they know what kind of person he is, what he looks like and what kinds of deep-seated trauma he’s dealing with. Great.

In an hour, he’ll be sitting in front of a crowd and faking smiles behind his mask. His nose will probably scrunch up and his eyes will shrink as he forces his face muscles to contract as best as he possibly can when someone runs up to him and says, again and again, just how incredibly melancholic his books were, just how badly they wish the main characters could’ve ended up together and he’ll nod. He’ll say  _ yeah, but sometimes things don’t work the way we want them to, they’ll be okay when they meet in their next life _ or something equally cheesy because perhaps repeating those words will make them more real somehow.

He’ll sit for this torture for two or three hours depending on how many people show up.

“It will be over before you know it.”

“I didn’t want it to happen in the first place,” Kiyoomi sighs as he sits down on the leather seats. “Why can’t I just sign them beforehand and we have the bookshops take care of the rest?”

“People want to see you.”

“Well, I don’t want to see  _ them _ ,” he lets his head fall back and closes his eyes. “It should’ve been enough that I already wrote it. It should’ve been enough for them to read it and appreciate the lover’s misfortune.”

“Yeah, but that’s not how it works.”

“It should be.”

The soft hum of the car’s engine lulls him to sleep, grabs him by his ankles as the car moves slowly, letting his mind roam free and wander back to his story, to the many paths he took after their last night, to the nights they’d slip out from their chambers and hide somewhere dark in the gardens, when they’d lace their fingers and rest their heads on each other’s shoulders, when their chests would grow tighter and tighter and their lungs would thrash around and beg for mercy because all of a sudden they didn’t remember how to breathe, how to do anything other than get lost in each other and-

_ “This is treason,” I’d say. “I could be charged and locked away.” _

_ “I’d never let them.” _

_ A sigh escapes my lips. _

_ His calloused hands hidden beneath carefully crafted gloves, the cold touch of a foreign object touching my skin as I closed my eyes and let him guide me into the darkness, behind the tall trees and the rose bushes. His voice echoing around us, the fireflies swirling around his head as if that was his crowning day, as if I was his betrothed, as if we’d just exchanged our vows and wedding bands. _

_ “I’ll write about your crowns,” I say. “I’ll head back now.” _

_ “Can’t you stay for a bit longer?” _

_ It’s a plea. _

_ I consider it. _

_ “I’m afraid I shall go, my Lord,” I say. He scrunches up his nose and I grin. “My words are waiting for me in my chambers. Have a good night.” _

_ He doesn’t say anything as I walk through the bushes, as a rose gets stuck on my tunics, as I muffle the sob that wants to break through because he’s  _ unfairly  _ pretty, even now, even as his eyes grow tired and his hair is tamed, even as he hides his porcelain skin under noble attires, under the red velvet cloaks and golden chains, even as the  _ him _ I knew turns into a distant memory.  _

_ He calls me by a nickname I hadn’t heard in months. _

_ “I love you,” he says. _

_ I want to say it back. _

_ I throw him the rose. _

_ I hope he understands it. _

  
  


“Incredible, isn’t it?”

There are piles and piles of his books carefully stacked into the weirdest shapes Kiyoomi has ever seen in his life. They’re like buildings, metaphorical palaces built from paragraphs and semicolons, unstable to their very foundation and he can only chuckle as the manager smiles widely at him with open arms as he says  _ we’re very pleased to meet you, Sakusa-san! _

The smell of fresh paper and ink floods his senses and all of a sudden he’s back inside the maple oak bedchambers, crouching over a piece of delicate paper as he spilled ink over a blank canvas over and over again, as the tears slid down his cheeks with ease, flowing effortlessly as if they were but a mere expansion of the river that flowed just outside his window. The burns from the candlewax he had by his arms, the nights he couldn’t bear to slide under the warm blankets because the words wouldn’t leave him alone, pestering him until the sun was already high up in the sky, greeting him with a warm breeze.

From afar, he could see the cameras and the microphones, the journalists adjusting their clothes and their hair and their makeup and Kiyoomi couldn’t help but scowl, his nose scrunching up against his will. He turns around, frowning lightly when he hears his name being called by the excited people waiting in line for their turn to walk inside in, what, half an hour?

“Are you excited to meet your fans?” A clerk asks him with a bright smile.

No.

“Excited would be an exaggeration.”

“He doesn’t deal well with crowds, you’ll have to excuse him for coming off as a bit rude sometimes,” is what his agent, his manager, whatever else people called him, replies in his stance with a choked laugh. “He’s very excited, yes, but it’s a bit scary to meet so many people at once. It’ll be okay, he just needs some time to warm up to it.”

“Right, of course, we’ll leave you to it.”

It’s quiet as Motoya drags him towards the area they’ve prepared for him in the fictional books section. There are people inside already, staring at the banners and clutching his books tightly to their chest as if they were scared someone would take them away if they weren’t careful. They chat excitedly about the kind of person they hope  _ Sakusa Kiyoomi _ is and exchange opinions on countless quotes, especially the ones by the last pages because  _ it felt like someone was ripping my heart out with their bare hands _ or something like that.

He’s dragged and dragged and dragged and when he comes to, he’s hidden between the stacks and Motoya is staring angrily at him, his eyebrows flocking closer and closer and he huffs and puffs like a character straight out of a children’s book. “You can’t keep doing that.”

“Doing what?”

He rolls his eyes dramatically in the same way he used to do when they were children. He sighs and his knees give in from under his weight for a second, his hands holding Kiyoomi’s shoulder for support. “You’re an author, they’re your fans. They love your stories and because of that they love  _ you. _ It’s because you’ve touched their hearts with your words that they want to know you better. What made you want to write that, who was your inspiration, things like that.”

Komori Motoya, his cousin ever since he was born in this lifetime. His wide eyes and weird eyebrows. His warm, comforting smile and the way his voice cracked when he laughed too hard. His reassuring touch and the way he took this path along with Kiyoomi when his fingers moved by themselves as he wrote and wrote and wrote. Komori Motoya, the kind of person who could bring the world down to its ruins when he screamed, his eyes flashing with murderous intent as Kiyoomi blinked lazily at him, shrugging and sighing because, well, what else was he supposed to do while being scolded?

“I know you don’t like this and I wouldn’t have dragged you here if I didn’t think this would be good for you,” he says. “I know about your dreams, I know about your mark, how your eyes light up whenever you see someone with a mark on their necks, how you purposely fail at hiding it completely. I've known you since we were born, you know? There’s not much you can hide from me.”

“Okay.” Kiyoomi replies with a nod. “I’ll behave so we can get this over with quickly.”

Motoya smiles. “Great. Now let’s go back there and sit your ass on that chair.”

“I’m already regretting it.”

_ He leaves me roses every morning. _

_ They come in a silver platter along with a noble’s breakfast. _

_ There are no notes, no other kind of communication other than our late night escapades when we dance under the moonlight and I brush his hair out of his face. He looks like a king, a golden hue around his whole body as he swirls and pulls me close, as the fireflies fly freely around us and the wind whistles a song our feet have memorized by now. The trees move their branches, the leaves rustling as they dance with us, as they sing along to our song. _

_ It’s not okay, this thing we’re doing. _

_ I write about his eyes and the way they sparkle like the jewels glued to the gold of his crown. _

_ I write about the strong arms holding me in a silent dance, about the careful, lingering touches we share without ever tasting what we once had. I write about what he tasted like back then, when he rolled over in hay and we covered ourselves with tattered cloaks, skin touching skin and the laughter when one of us shuddered. _

_ I write about their marriage, about the carriages and the hummingbirds. _

_ I write about their vows and how everyone cried, including the poet writing to them. _

_ We can’t stop. _

_ “We’re not doing anything wrong,” he tells me. “We’re acquaintances dancing the same song. How could that be wrong?” _

_ “We’ve defiled each other, my Lord,” I laugh as he spins me around. “Shouldn’t that be enough reason for me to be considered a criminal?” _

_ “You shouldn’t have to call me a Lord,” he chuckles. “I’m still that peasant boy you met under the tree, lying on the ground as I counted the stars, love.” _

_ “You shouldn’t call me love, then.” I say, because it’s true. _

_ “Force of habit.” _

_ We laugh. _

_ We dance, our fingers intertwined for more than a second, our nails digging deep into each other’s flesh as we dig out the last bit of  _ us _ we can get before it’s too late for us to relish in it, to bask in the afterglow of a love that  _ is _ but that cannot be at the same time. What a wicked performance of Fate, we used to talk about, to make us a match and forbid us from bathing in it as we wish to. What a wicked performance of human stubbornness, I write in a journal, the way he dragged me along with him into nobility’s arms, the way he made me a poet through and through and the way I wouldn’t have it any other way. _

_ I met him, poetry, and that makes me a poet. _

_ I drink up my words as I once drank  _ him _. _

_ Perhaps that is why words flow out of me with such ease. _

  
  


Countless eyes were looking at him, beaming with excitement and anxiety all at once as he looked down at the books in front of him and the hands that got way too close all of a sudden. He nods at them, opens their books, asks their names and writes off his name with a quirky smiling face as Motoya advised him to do it since  _ it’ll make you seem more approachable. _ Not that he wanted that, not really, but he found out his cousin could be really scary when he wanted to and dealing with his angry self wasn’t really something Kiyoomi was looking forward to do today.

The girl standing in front of him even began jumping from one foot to the other when he grabbed the book she placed in front of him. He looks up at her with wide eyes and  _ smiles _ , his eyes shrinking and mask sliding uncomfortably over his face. She almost squeals when she notices it, hiding her trembling hands behind her back as he asks her name and grabs his pen.

It flows smoothly.

Some people want to talk for a bit while others can’t open their mouths even if it would save their lives. Kiyoomi finds out it’s not all that bad when there’s a whole round table distance between them. 

It’s fun to watch them struggling with their words of praise and when, eventually  _ incredible  _ and  _ spectacular  _ turn into a hybrid of  _ increditacular _ and Kiyoomi can see the horror flashing in their eyes as their cheeks burn and they try to look somewhere else.

There were a few pictures, people excitedly grabbing their signed books and giving their best smiles to the threatening camera pointed at him ever since he first sat down. There were gifts, a small pile of boxes and handmade presents, mostly related to his books, by his side. He looks at it from time to time, the reds and blacks from the wrapping papers blinding him for a second as the artificial light shines over them. It’s not all that bad, he finds out, meeting the people consuming his memories, theorizing about his character’s next lives, if they’ll ever meet again. 

_ Your book is a blessing. _

_ I’m already looking forward to their next meetings. _

_ Can I talk about this theory I had for the lives they have yet to live? _

They have great ideas. 

They talk about the characters with such love that Kiyoomi almost feels like it’s directed towards him. They whisper about the main character’s fair skin and the thousands of constellations he hides under his robes, about the way he sounds cunning and mean but melts under his lover’s touch, how he’s never wanted anything other than to love and to be loved back. They talk about the lover’s suffering, the marks hidden away and how proudly they’d show them when they were together.  _ It’s such a sad, beautiful story. _

His fingers hurt from the strain, his vision blurry. How many hours had it been already?

There were still at least fifty people in line, their eyes expectant and sparkling with the excitement of being  _ seen _ when Kiyoomi stares at the mess of heads, limbs and colors they make. He waves softly as someone places their book in front of him, as they stand aside and let him interact with the crowd yelling his name in adoration.

“I’m sorry,” he says, looking down at the book before him before grabbing his pen once again. “Who should I…?”

The words die on his throat.

They scatter around and melt, sliding down his windpipe and scratching the sensitive muscles as they free-fall. It’s familiar, the words written on a usually blank, expecting page. It’s familiar, the way they make his stomach churn and his heart race. It’s the knowing glances and the dancing past midnight, when everyone was asleep and it was  _ them _ and the moonlight. It’s the fireflies building a glowing crown over his head, the gloved hands over his waist and the bow of his head as they approached the diverging paths of marble hallways.

_ I’m sorry I took so long _ .

Kiyoomi clears his throat and forces himself to look up at the person standing in front of him. It’s all black, the jacket and the jeans, the scarf and the sunglasses covering the long, curled lashes and the shades Kiyoomi’s missed so much. His hair is a mess pointing everywhere, his lips parting in a sweet, knowing smile as he bows his head softly the way he used to do so long ago, before their fingers let go of each other’s, before they closed their eyes and the heavy doors to their chambers.

“Atsumu is fine,” he says. “Unless ya have something else in mind.”

His eyes are covered, but Kiyoomi  _ knows _ he winked.

“Took you long enough.”

“I know, s’why I apologized.”

“An apology doesn’t cut it, Miya.”

A hum. “We’re back to Miya now, are we?”

Kiyoomi wants to laugh and cry and hide himself in the corner now. He grips the pen, bites the insides of his cheeks and takes a deep breath before letting his eyes lock with Atsumu’s face, his lips still frozen into that grin Kiyoomi once compared to the thousands of stars shining on the sky above their heads, watching over him on the nights they had to spend apart. His hair is prettier now and that’s one of the first things his brain registers. It’s a shade lighter, the first rays of the sun as it rises from its slumber each and every day, the light it casts over the hills, secure and comfortable warmth as it wakes people up.

There were still people in line.

Atsumu found him.

But the autograph session isn’t over yet, joyful eyes staring at him with excitement.

He sighs, shaking his head and looking back at the messy handwriting on the page that stares back at him, the blurred ink at the bottom as if Atsumu wasn’t really sure he even wanted to write that in the first place, as if he’d hesitated after pressing the pen to the surface. As if he wasn’t sure he was ready to meet him in this lifetime, as if meeting again would be too much for their hearts to handle. And perhaps it was, perhaps Kiyoomi has even forgotten how to breathe as he quickly writes something on the page before shutting the book closed and handing it to him. 

“Thank you for coming,” he says loudly enough for the people in line to hear. And, quickly, he adds in a whisper: “You better wait for me. I’ll make it quick.”

Atsumu chuckles before nodding. “I’ve waited all this time, Omi-kun. I can wait for another hour or two.”

“You better.”

  
  


_ He touches me and I burn. _

_ He smiles and suddenly I am no more. _

_ It is but my unbecoming, the way his fingers memorize every inch of my body, the way his lips know exactly where to touch, how to call my name in the way that will render me speechless, all his to do what he pleases with. _

_ I am his, body and soul and everything I have to offer. _

_ How I wish I could say that he is mine in the same way. _

_ I am the only one who knows about the fox and the hive on his neck and he is the only one who knows of their twins on my skin. We trace them at night, the fireflies and the moonlight showing us the shapes of the things we’ve already memorized, showing us the marks that bind us together, the things that are deemed worthless in a world of gold and silver. _

_ It’s fine, we tell each other as we go on our nightly walks. _

_ We’ll meet in another time, we’ll be bound by these forces and one day we’ll have our happy ending. I tell him I don’t believe in postponing the happy endings, that I’m happy as long as I can stand beside him and write about the way his eyes light up entire rooms. He laughs and pushes me to the ground as he says this isn’t the happy ending we deserve. _

_ “What will it be, then?” _

_ He thinks for a second. “Us.” _

_ “We are here still.” _

_ “Not like this,” he says as he brushes hair out of my face. “Not with walls between us, titles and a binding contract that demands your service. Us as in  _ us _ , common people being free to love each other fully. Wouldn’t that be the happy ending we deserve?” _

_ He traces my mark with the tip of his fingers. _

_ He touches me and I burn. _

_ He smiles and suddenly I am no more. _

_ “Yes,” I say. “I’ll be waiting.” _

_ “Okay.” _

_ “I mean it.” _

_ “Yes, so do I. I’ll find you again and again and until I can hold you proudly.” _

_ “And until then?” _

_ He seems to think for a while before he breaks into laughter again. _

_ “Until then we are the best we can be, my love.” _

_ He tells me we’ll be inseparable, I’ll be his poet and his right arm. I’ll be the last person he sees before he locks himself in his chambers until the sun rises and the first person he sees after that. He tells me I’ll go with him wherever he needs to be, that there’ll be no  _ him _ without  _ me _ , that there won’t be a day where we won’t dance under the moonlight and profess the things we can’t say when there are still people lurking around. _

_ We’ll go on walks, we’ll nurture these feelings. _

_ “We’ll be us,” he says. “And it’ll be enough.” _

  
  


His fingers hurt.

He drops his pen to the table and stretches his arms on top of his head, Motoya walking towards him with a childish grin on his face. He kneels down and grabs the little pile of gifts, analyzing one by one until he’s satisfied with himself, until Kiyoomi is sighing and attempting to get up from the chair despite the fact that his legs have now grown numb. How many hours had it been since he sat down, anyway?

“It wasn’t all that bad, was it?”

“I’m going to kill you.”

“You’ve met him, haven’t you?”

It’s a question he wasn’t expecting, a question that makes his heart race on the spot, one of his sore hands flying to the poorly hidden mark on his neck, covering it up as if his life depended on it. Motoya knows, he’s always known, ever since Kiyoomi woke up crying as a toddler, missing someone he’d never met, ever since they started talking about their marks and Kiyoomi eventually mentioned something about the comforting hug of a fox’s tail at the insignificant age of three. 

“The guy you’ve been writing about,” he adds with a chuckle as he looks up at him. Kiyoomi gulps the knot that settled in the middle of his throat. “The guy you’ve been missing from past lives, the reason why you always do such a terrible job at covering your mark. You’ve met him.”

It’s no longer a question. 

“I have.”

“Where is he?”

“Somewhere around here, I assume.”

“Go.”

“Okay.”

He runs.

Kiyoomi runs as if his life depends on it and, honestly, at this point, it kind of does.  _ I’ll find you again and again and until I can hold you proudly _ , he said. The bookshop is almost empty now, the hallways silent as Kiyoomi gasps and struggles to breathe. He hasn’t ran in so long his muscles almost didn’t remember how to, his heart climbing all the way up his throat as he blinks the haziness away, as he desperately looks between the stacks, over them, at anywhere his eyes can turn to, and then-

He’s there.

Leaning against a wall, holding one of his books tenderly as his eyes scan the lines, Atsumu almost looks like the person he knew once. His eyes are squinted, a light smile tugging at his lips and lashes casting shadows over his cheekbones as he blinks once, twice, and then he looks up. His hair falls effortlessly over his forehead, his head tilting a bit when Kiyoomi stops in his tracks, staring at him as if he’s the world’s most precious work of art, as if he’s scared to take a step forward and find out this whole thing was nothing more than a fever dream as he lies in bed and reminisces of the ways he’d touch him oh, so tenderly under the night sky. 

_ He’s here. _

_ I’m sorry I took so long. _

“You haven’t changed.”

Atsumu laughs. “Yeah, ya haven’t either, Omi. Still the prettiest thing I’ve ever laid my eyes on.”

Oh.

Okay, they’re going down this route.

“What’s taken you so long?”

“Finding a way to come here was hard,” he explains as he closes the book. “I was born somewhere far from ya. I was living every single day with the thought of beautiful eyes I couldn’t quite describe, a voice like liquid night being poured over me, a warm embrace of someone I’d never even met. And then I remembered a name, a face, everything that screamed  _ Kiyoomi.” _

“So it was the same with you.”

Atsumu nods, a cheeky smile parting his lips. “But ya wrote ‘bout me.”

There it is. 

“Shut up.”

He laughs as he holds onto him, his arms over Kiyoomi’s shoulders all of a sudden, their faces too close, the book awkwardly hitting the back of his head as Atsumu tries to spin them around, as he tries to force Kiyoomi to dance with him as they did so many times in the past, hidden between the bushes and the trees, hidden by the night’s starry veil, invisible to anyone who dared to peek into the night. 

“I said I would,” Kiyoomi replies as he wraps one of his arms around Atsumu’s waist. He’s a bit smaller than him in this lifetime, Kiyoomi notices as he looks down at the eyes he’s missed so much. “I said I’d write about your eyes and the way they hold constellations in them, the way they shine just for me. I wrote about you.”

“Yeah,” he whispers against Kiyoomi’s chest. “Yeah, ya did.”

“You’re here.”

“I am.”

  
  


_ “I love you,” he whispers to me as we say our farewells for the night. _

_ “Yes, you’ve said that already.” _

_ “Can’t I profess my love more than once?” _

_ I laugh. “What would people say if they happened to overhear us in the halls, my Lord?” _

_ He clicks his tongue in annoyance, one of his hands waving dismissively in the air. He takes one step closer and then two until our chests are touching and our lips are dangerously close, so close I could taste him if I dare open my mouth. _

_ “I love you,” he says again and again and again, warm breath against my skin, one of his hands holding my wrist and holding me captive to his spells. “I’d strip myself of any title for you. Would you want to run away with me? We’ll gather the most we can, we’ll hold each other tight and make a life of our own.” _

_ It’s tempting. _

_ “In another life, perhaps, my Lord.” I say. _

_ “I love you,” he repeats. “Can’t I have this, at least?” _

_ “You can.” I tell him. “And I, my Lord, love you with my whole being. Will you take it as it is, raw and unrefined, bleeding words onto the paper you supply me with? That is the only way I know how to love, I’m afraid.” _

_ “I’ll eat it up,” he says, letting go of my wrist, a trail of fire following his move. “I’ll take everything you have to offer, your words and your time, your smiles and the way you spin around in my arms. I’ll take  _ you _ , love.” _

_ For now, as we gulp down our instincts, as we hide our necks with everything we can find, as we promise each other a life different than this one when we’re reborn, we smile and waltz around nobility’s castles, bathing in their riches and taking advantage of their gardens, this is more than enough. _

_ I get to have him and he gets to have me. _

_ We savour each other in everything we can get. _

_ What else could we possibly wish for? _

  
  


“Omi, please, I can’t breathe.”

“Not letting go.”

It’s the warmth of his body being held close to his, the smell of the cologne on his skin and the way he still fits perfectly in his embrace, just as well as he remembers. It’s the makeup they washed off, the marks almost glowing as they met once again, as they were finally free of the layers upon layers of cheap concealer and the way Atsumu could still trace it with his fingertips while having his eyes closed.

It’s the way Motoya grinned at them, waving a short goodbye before letting him go without saying anything, grabbing the gifts he got and texting him a few minutes later with a winking face and an entire paragraph telling him he’d keep the presents for tonight, he’d tell the editors of today’s success and adding in a quick  _ don’t forget protection _ before another winking face. 

Kiyoomi didn’t even bother to take off his shoes once he stepped inside his house.

“Omi, come  _ on!” _

“I’m not letting go,” he replies simply. “I had to wait an entire lifetime and who knows how many others came before this one before you showed up again. I’m not letting you go this easily, Miya. You owe me.”

He laughs and it tastes like honey at the back of his tongue. 

“Can I at least turn around to see your face?”

“No, you can’t.” Kiyoomi replies, resting his chin on top of Atsumu’s head. “If I let go you could just disappear again and I’m not taking any risks right now. I refuse to write another book about heartbreak and  _ meeting-to-lose.” _

“I’m not going anywhere,” he giggles. “Please, I’m going to die.”

Kiyoomi lets go of him for a second, just enough so that he can raise his head and look at him with squinted eyes. They still look like honey pools, the golden bits still floating around as if they own the place, as if they’re merely waiting for Kiyoomi to count them and claim them as his personal treasure. Atsumu smiles and it feels like the whole world is about to come crashing down over their heads. It feels like his heart is suddenly too full, on the brink of an explosion, and Kiyoomi doesn’t even care, touching his cheeks with trembling fingers and bringing their foreheads together.

He closes his eyes and listens to Atsumu’s voice calling his name, listens to the frenetic echo of his heartbeat, listens to the ruffle of his blankets as Atsumu pulls them over them and slowly snuggles closer to him, resting his chin on top of his chest before sliding a finger over his mark.

“It’s still the same mark,” he comments with a sigh. “D’ya think that maybe it’s because we didn’t get to be together as the universe wanted us to?”

“Mm.”

“It’s not like we parted ways, though. We were together all the time, we just… didn’t do the things we wanted to do.” Atsumu whispers, a soft giggle escaping his lips as he traces soothing circles over Kiyoomi’s mark. “I dreamt about you, did I ever tell you? When we were still  _ them _ and not us. I dreamt about holding you, about the times you held me and the way we’d look up at the sky afterwards. Before that whole thing happened.”

“Mm,” Kiyoomi hums again, eyes still closed. “I did too.”

“Should we?”

“Mm?”

Atsumu laughs again, shaking his head softly as Kiyoomi lazily opens his eyes. “Don’t ya wanna hold me, Omi? Or would you rather I hold  _ you  _ instead? Because I could totally do that, I’ve been dreaming about this for…”

Kiyoomi did too.

He woke up in the middle of the night sometimes, sheets damp with sweat as he stared at his ceiling and thought  _ ah, it was just a dream _ . The times where hazel eyes burning his skin, long lashes tickling the skin on his neck, soft lips pressing chaste kisses over  _ their _ mark as Kiyoomi whimpered and begged and the ones where he was the one making a mess out of him, breaking him down to his very foundation only to piece him back together like an intricate one-hundred-thousand-pieces puzzle.

He’d be lying if he said his body wasn’t burning right now, if he said the mere sight of Atsumu being  _ there, _ resting his head on his chest, caressing the skin on his neck and smiling innocently at him didn’t do  _ things _ to him. 

“Can’t I just hold you like this for a while?”

“Mm?” Atsumu replies with an arched eyebrow.

“Just… let us stay as we are.” Kiyoomi replies with a sigh. “Just for today.”

He doesn’t answer, but his expression softens, his eyelids fluttering heavily as Kiyoomi reaches up to play with a stubborn strand of gold that refuses to stay put like the rest of them. He chuckles as he snuggles closer and closer, as he presses yet another kiss to the side of Kiyoomi’s neck, to the spot right beneath their mark and throws one arm over Kiyoomi’s stomach. Atsumu feels like thunder and home all at once and, for a second, Kiyoomi isn’t even sure what he’s supposed to do.

They close their eyes and listen to each other’s sounds for a bit. The rhythm of their hearts, the dance they used to tiptoe around in the gardens, hidden under the tall trees and the starry sky, the growls of their stomachs and the laughter that soon followed. It’s sweet and intimate and everything they didn’t get to have for long before, everything they dreamt of, everything they woke up missing.

“Thank you,” Atsumu whispers all of a sudden.

“What for?”

For a second, there’s silence.

Kiyoomi almost believes Atsumu has fallen asleep before his fingers slowly intertwine with his own, before he sighs and snuggles even closer than before until they’re as close as humanly possible and perhaps a tad bit more than that, Kiyoomi’s arms over his body and one of his hands resting softly over his head.

“Waiting for me,” he says. “Believing I’d find you, believing that wasn’t our only shot.”

“Thank you.” Kiyoomi replies.

He laughs. “What for?”

“Looking for me again,” he whispers as he presses a kiss to the top of his head. “For being an asshole and almost giving me a heart attack showing up like that. I absolutely despise you, have I ever told you that?”

It’s familiar, the way their laughs blend into a single sound, an echo of who they were and who they are now, an image of a noble’s vests and the ripped jeans that followed, the kisses they shared in secret and the ones they’ll proudly display, hand-in-hand as their marks glow under the sun as they always should have done. It’s familiar, the way they melt into each other’s touch, nothing but putty after a particularly hungry kiss because  _ this is already too long, can you indulge me for a bit? _

_ I said yes. _

_ Yes to every trace of his fingers and every stolen kiss. _

_ It’s always yes. _

**Author's Note:**

> fun fact: this was based on a tumblr prompt!
>
>> _"You become a writer and your series of novels become extremely popular, but what they don’t know is that you’re retelling your previous life where certain circumstances made it, so you and your soulmate did not end up together, but your soulmate promises to be with you the next lifetime. At a book signing, you open the book cover of a fan’s copy to see something written on the front page:_ I’m sorry I took so long."
> 
> another fun fact: this was supposed to have been very angsty at first with the whole not-ending-up-together thing but the mods bonked me in the head (metaphorically speaking, of course, although i suppose they might have wanted to _actually_ bonk me at some point. sorry.) so i had to rewrite quite a bit of the story but alas! i'm very proud of it <3
> 
> you're free to come yell at/with me on [twitter](https://www.twitter.com/aaIphard) (´꒳`)


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